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Artchil Daug


The Watchman


Where did his feet go,
walking, the dreaded steps
of the night watchman,
turning the flashlight
into a net, unto himself,
twisting and hiding
from the shadows
of a candle left burning
inside the classroom, filled
with alarm clocks,
eager chickens, laying eggs
for the future, the paradox:
which came first:
the watchful eye of the serpent
or the arthritic feet of the tree,
in groans and sighs,
unable to break free.

Submitted: Wednesday, August 22, 2012

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